On Subtlety
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: John/Sherlock. Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes can be spectacularly ignorant.


There was something different about John when he came down the stairs on the fourth Tuesday after the bomb had gone off. The limp (now nothing close to psychosomatic, as the fractured bone had told in the damning x-rays) was lighter that Tuesday, and the metallic stomp of the crutch had completely disappeared. Sherlock peered over his steepled fingertips on one end and his bare toes on the other end of the sofa to see the doctor hobble down into the kitchen.

It was so very John to insist on a cane for a nonexistent limp and ignore the cane for a legitimate injury. The side of Sherlock's mouth ticked up, and he closed his eyes again in thought.

But the missing crutch wasn't the only difference, he realized once he had eliminated sight from the equation. He cocked his head and tested the air once more, this time with a full breath into his lungs through the nose.

"Different toothpaste," Sherlock said once John had joined him. John's off-kilter footsteps stopped in the middle of the room, turned to the man draped on the sofa.

There was a lie in John's voice when he answered: "I ran out."

"You always get the same toothpaste," Sherlock insisted in an even tone, not even turning his head, let alone opening his eyes.

John didn't deny it a second time, but simply flopped down with a grunt into his chair. The rustle of a newspaper, and silence.

Interesting.

Once Sherlock had begun moving (only on the pretense of continuing the experiment on the kitchen that proved to become increasingly malodorous the further he proceeded), there were other things that he began to take notice of in John's behavior. He fetched Sherlock the beaker that he had left stewing in the sunlight of the front window downstairs without having to be bribed-without complaining, Sherlock noted even further. John had little patience when it came to the mess in the kitchen he affectionately dubbed _experiments_, but he said not a word and shuffled down the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow.

And he stayed in the kitchen. Sherlock had taken the beaker (the green substance that had congealed in the fridge had finally liquefied in the sun) and expected the doctor to go about the rest of his morning on his own, as he usually did, and leave the detective to his own devices. Instead, with Sherlock looking curiously down his nose at him, John tilted his head and pulled up a chair.

"So what's this all about?" he asked, eyes up and dutiful like a student before the teacher.

Sherlock had at first been too confused (flattered?) to answer, and had this been any other soul but John, he would have dismissed the explanation as far too difficult for anyone else to follow. But it was John, curious dog-eyed John, who had asked, and after he had shaken off his initial surprise, Sherlock indulged him. The doctor had a great deal of expertise on some matters, such as the reaction of blood (John pointedly did not ask _whose_ blood) to the various elements Sherlock had spread out over the table, but on the more difficult matters of chemistry he had to generously instruct poor John. Now and then the doctor would ask another question (what's this one called? what does it do? how would these two react? what sort of equation...?) and Sherlock would dryly answer, nonetheless impressed on his flatmate's sudden interest in his work.

When he stood to get tea, John settled his hand on Sherlock's shoulder just long enough to step by him. It didn't recur when he returned to his seat, grinning up at the detective as he worked.

Interesting.

John began nearly all of his sentences with _Sherlock_ (Sherlock, I'll be going out for a bit; Sherlock, you've been losing weight again; Sherlock, I need you in the kitchen; Sherlock, it's cold, take a scarf; Sherlock, what have you done to your hair?). It wasn't as if Sherlock was going to forget his name, or that John would need to remind himself of it every other sentence from his mouth.

When Sherlock told a particularly rancid joke in response to something passing on the news, John, who hadn't even been watching, giggled into his dinner. One of Sherlock's eyebrows perked up, and he minutely turned his head to gaze across at his friend, who hadn't looked up from his plate. Still smiling. So he tried again, sinking even further into the depths of humorist hell. John laughed again, muttering how he never realized Sherlock had a sense of humor.

This warranted an experiment.

The following evening, sitting aimlessly on the sofa and sending intermittent glances in the direction of his subject (in his chair again, laptop at an angle as he typed what Sherlock assumed was finally his rendition of the encounter with Moriarty), the detective put the experiment to work. He stretched languidly out on the sofa in his usual position, tapped his fingertips together expectantly, and asked loudly:

"John, can I have your laptop?"

John's typing continued for five seconds, and Sherlock was sure that, as usual, the doctor would not stop his work for the sake of Sherlock's whims. Then, the typing ceased, John saved his work, and limped over to the sofa. He wordlessly placed the laptop on Sherlock's middle and asked if the detective would like any tea while he was up.

What an odd result. Very interesting. But _why?_

After a week of these peculiar changes in his friend, Sherlock saw that they, too, had given way to a new set of changes. John had become noticeably less agreeable with each passing day, and the laughing at his jokes was right out. His limp had become worse (rather more overstated than overpained) and he outright grumbled about it in the open. Sherlock was sure that he could hear the crutch now and again banging on the floor above his head.

And, while many sentences were still prefixed by his name (Sherlock, take the bloody trash out; Sherlock, what the hell is this on the floor?; Sherlock, you git; Sherlock, what have you done to your hair?), John tended to stare very directly and pointedly at him for several seconds after the both of them had finished speaking. Wide-eyed and expectant, mouth a flat line, head tilted just so much as if to be waiting for Sherlock to say or do something.

It was clear that John had been very different (two kinds of different, in fact) lately, and it was all directed at Sherlock. He hadn't noticed his flatmate acting any differently toward Mrs. Hudson or DI Lestrade (who had stopped over with an obscene bunch of flowers from a station fund after the bombs had gone off; John was sure Donovan had to be bribed to chip in). Whatever could have caused him to do such things? It puzzled Sherlock like a good puzzle hadn't in quite some time.

One night, a Tuesday as a matter of fact, Sherlock stood over his test tubes in the kitchen and he heard John come up behind him-limp nearly forgotten, he noticed, in lieu of haste. The shorter man uttered a noise very much like a sigh and a grunt, which caused Sherlock to turn.

Then, John grabbed his behind and forced them together at the hips.

"No point being subtle with Sherlock Holmes," John growled, and he was on Sherlock's lips even quicker.

Sherlock's brain tried to work it out in a million lightning-quick deductions, but it all shivered and disappeared when his eyes shut on their own and fingers dug into thick woolen shoulders.

_Oh.

* * *

_AN: I have tried being subtle. It doesn't work. Least of all on Sherlock. I'm having all sorts of fun writing for these fellows, and as long as they keep living in my head, I'll be sure to put their antics down here. Thanks to everyone for reading so far, you've been so good to me! Hope I don't disappoint! Thanks again, leave some love, and as usual STAY AWESOME!


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